


Daddy's Friend

by Amarok (ButterflyGhost)



Series: Daddy's Friend [1]
Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Other, Paedophilia, Rape, adult stress related amnesia, non-consensual sex with a minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:45:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/Amarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerrard visits Ben while his father is away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daddy's Friend

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot make this any clearer. This is a story with extremely graphic and distressing elements, written from four perspectives, one of which is that of a pedophile. 
> 
> If you chose to read further, do not complain to me about the content - I have warned you. And, for the record, any of my fics which deal this graphically with non-con subject matter will be posted under the pseud 'Amarok' as yet a further signpost that the content is explicit, and disturbing. I can't think of anything else I can do by way of warning people, and I refuse on point of principle to publish anonymously, even if that would be an easier option.
> 
> So: I would like to point out that I did not write this because I'm a pervert. I do not want people writing to me off the record accusing me of moral deviancy. I have, however, had to deal with paedophiles in a professional context, and like most people, am aware personally of individuals suffering the consequences. I didn't like writing this one, but the story kept shouting to be said.
> 
> And I would like to thank Ride_Forever for being brave enough to beta this one for me. Don't send her hate-mail either.

Gerrard was riding over the hill.

  
Benton saw him first, and dropped his bundle of firewood. “Grandmother,” he cried, “I see him, Daddy’s friend is coming.”

  
Martha looked up, and smiled in relief – someone else would entertain her grandson for a few days. And oh, good Lord, she was getting old. It wasn’t his fault, but the boy was so energetic. Climbing, scrambling, jumping… he tired her out. But she did feel a twist of regret. More than anything, she wished the visitor could have been her son.

  
“Go on, Benton,” she said. “You go to see your father’s friend. I’ll see you both for dinner.”  
Benton ran, as fast as his feet could kick the earth behind him. Gerrard saw him coming, and swung low from the pommel of his horse, scooped him up. “Ben,” he said, “Ben,” and slung him to the front of the saddle, kissed his head as he settled him. He slowed his approach to the Fraser cabin, wheeled slightly, and smiled down at Martha.

  
“How are you, Mrs. Fraser?”

  
“I’m well, young man.” She shifted on her haunches, stood from stacking wood, and ignored the twinges in her hips.“How’s my son?”

 

“He’s fine. He sends his best regards.”

 

Martha sighed. She should expect no more than a ‘best regards’ from her long absent son. She’d send a letter back with this young man. “When you see him… well. Never mind. You know, the usual. Are you staying long?”

 

“A couple of days, perhaps.”

 

Martha smiled, very slightly. Not a visit from Robert, but at least a visit from his friend. “We’ll be glad to have you.”

 

“I wondered, can I borrow your grandson for a little while? You know, he’s a natural horseman. I thought I’d teach him some tricks.”

 

“Bring him back in time for dinner.”

 

Gerrard looked at his watch. “A couple of hours, Mrs. Fraser, I’ll try not to keep him too long.”

 

She smiled again. “It’s good to see you,” she said. “I’ll try not to burn dinner this time.”

 

Gerrard laughed. “Honestly, it didn’t bother me…”

 

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Just so long as you and Benton enjoy yourselves.”

 

“Thank you, Grandmother,” Benton called excitedly. He was trying not to clap his hands, or his heels together. He must have learned the lesson from last time. Even Martha knew that if you kicked your heels on a horse, it had a tendency to rush off. But the little boy’s whole body language seemed to declare an urge to fly. Martha rarely saw him so excited. _If only Robert was home,_ she thought _. I wish it was my son who made him so happy, who taught him to ride a horse._ Still, Robert wasn’t here, and this young man, Gerrard, was. She smiled at her grandson, and her son’s good friend.

 

“Two hours,” she said, “and then dinner is burned.”

 

Gerrard lifted one hand to salute Martha Fraser, laughing. “Two hours,” he promised, and kicked his heel to the horse, turned away. Benton grasped the horse’s mane, excited. He was going for a ride with Daddy’s friend.  
~*~

 

“Lie still.”

 

Ben lay still.

 

“It doesn’t hurt anymore, does it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Don’t be polite. You can tell me. Does it hurt?” Gerrard pushed, slightly, almost half an inch deeper than he’d risked so far.

 

The boy squealed, and his hands scrabbled at the earth. “Yes,” he sobbed out, when he could speak. “Just a little bit.”

 

“Lie very still,” Gerrard said, moving incrementally back and forth. He wrapped his hand around himself, so he wouldn’t get carried away and go in too deep. He needed to be gentle. He had to get the child used to this. “You know, Ben, this is what men do. I’ll be very slow and careful. I don’t want it to hurt you.”

 

Ben lay very still as Gerrard moved in him, rhythmically, carefully. After a little while, he started going faster. The boy was whimpering.

 

“Is it hurting?”

 

Ben didn’t say anything, stopped making noises. Gerrard thrust, harder than he should. “Does it hurt?” he asked again, a little louder.

 

“Yes,” the boy said, and it sounded like he was weeping, muffled into the mud. Gerrard smiled, removed his hands from himself, thrust once more, still not too deep, and stopped.

 

“Is it because I’m heavy?”

 

Ben said nothing.

 

“It’s okay,” Gerrard said, reasonably. “I know I’m heavier than you. Am I squashing you?”

 

“No,” Ben said, in a small voice. “A bit, but…” he grunted as Gerrard pushed again, and made a little sob. “You’re so big.”

 

“Big?” Gerrard felt smug, and shoved again, before he could stop himself. He realised as he did it that he’d pushed too hard. Ben screamed into the loamy earth. Gerrard paused. “Sorry. Did that hurt?"

 

Ben was crying. “Yes.”

 

“Oh,” Gerrard said. “I’m sorry.” He withdrew. It was too soon to really go for it in Ben – the boy was practically a virgin. He simply wasn’t ready yet – only three attempts, and Gerrard was not a rapist. He didn’t force himself… the child was still far too tight. He could even hear the little slap sound, as the boy’s back passage snicked shut. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Son.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s alright. You’re very little. You’re not really a man yet.”

 

“I’m a man.”

 

“Yes,” Gerrard said, thoughtfully, reaching under the child’s hips. “I can see that.” The boy wriggled in his embrace, and snivelled. “I can feel that,” the man said. “Actually, you can be proud of that. It’s standing up. Most boys your age, they don’t stand up.” As it happened, most males’ organs stood up when their prostate had been stimulated, no matter how it happened, but the boy didn’t need to know that.

 

“Thank you,” the boy muttered, and pushed his face hard against the ground, as if he could bury himself, even as his hips hitched slightly, to allow the man better access to his penis.

 

“How does that feel?” Gerrard lapped the boy’s injured anus, and started to pull him.

 

The boy gasped, then came out with library words, not words Gerrard had ever heard from an eight-year-old before. “It feels extremely peculiar.”

 

“’Burny?’” he asked, quoting another boy.

 

“Yes,” Ben said, and started crying. “Burny.”

 

“You know,” Gerrard said, gently, “it really does feel better when you’re older.”

 

The boy didn’t say anything.

 

“And… you know, Ben, mine feels very peculiar too. Do you want to make mine feel better?”

 

The boy was breathing painfully, still weeping, like he’d been running, or someone had punched him in the gut. “It hurts,” he said, as Gerrard carried on pulling him. “Please, stop, please, stop, stop, it hurts…”

 

“I’m sorry,” Gerrard said. “Perhaps I’m too rough. Roll over. I’ll show you how to do it.”

 

The boy rolled onto his back, obediently, and Gerrard moved his head down. After a moment, the boy was crying again, and writhing, and twisting on the ground beneath the man’s head, like he had a stone on his groin, pinning him to the ground.

 

“Do you like that?” Gerrard asked, moving his head away for a moment.

 

“No.”

 

“Do you want me to stop?”

 

The boy was still crying, mud on his face from when he’d been pushed into the earth. “No.”

 

“Well then,” Gerrard said, sadly. “It’s your fault. You can’t tell anyone. They’ll think you’re filthy.”

 

Ben flung his dirty hands over his face. “Please, don’t tell my Grandparents.”

 

“I won’t,” Gerrard said, kindly. “And I won’t tell your Dad.”

 

He went back down, and it was such a little thing in his mouth. He could lap the whole thing so easily with his tongue. Boys at that age were so small… Ben only went to the ridge of his palate, and he wasn’t even as wide as Gerrard’s two front teeth. After a very little while the boy screamed, and pushed up, crying, into the man’s mouth. When the boy went soft, Gerrard moved up the little body. There had been no taste, not even a smidgen, on his tongue. The boy was too young. Maybe in a few years he’d catch that first slippery taste. By then he’d have Ben begging for anything. He started kissing the boy’s face. There was blood on it.

 

“What did you do, Ben, did you scratch yourself?”

 

The boy was still weeping, trying to wipe his hands. There was blood beneath his fingernails. “I didn’t mean to.”

 

Gerrard licked the cuts on his cheeks. “Next time, don’t scratch your face. You don’t want people to see it. This time we can say it’s where branches caught you.”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“Gerrard, Son, you can call me Gerrard. It’s what you’ve called me before. And your Dad calls me Gerrard.”

 

“Yes, Gerrard.”

 

“Now, you know how I made you feel better?”

 

“Better?”

 

“Yes, when I put you in my mouth.”

 

“Yes… Gerrard.”

 

“It’s only polite for you to do that to me.”

 

The boy’s eyes went round.

 

“Will it fit?”

 

“I’ll tell you how to do it.”

 

“It’s bigger than mine.”

 

Gerrard wriggled against the boy, shoved ‘it’ up against his chest. It was a nice feeling, to know the boy saw him that way, ’big,’ and invincible. To see him flinch as he waited for his touch. Gerard shifted his weight, kissed him again. “Don’t worry,” he murmured.“I’ll teach you just what to do.”

 

Ben moved, screwed his eyes shut, and Gerrard crawled up, crouched over his face. The boy opened his mouth as wide as he could, then choked a little as Gerrard started to rock into it.

 

“Relax,” he said. “Atta boy. Good, very good… relax. Not just your mouth, use your tongue. Pretend… pretend I’m an ice-cream. Lick it… yes, just like that…”

 

After a while his instructions became incoherent, and then he spasmed. The boy gagged, coughed, and started crying again as the mess went all over his face. Gerrard finished, and moved down, wrapped the boy up in his arms.

 

“You peed on my face.”

 

“It’s not pee, Son. See?” He licked a trail of it off the boy’s cheek. “Men do that. When you’re a man, yours will do that too.”

 

The boy nodded, still looking sad.

 

“Ben,” Gerrard said, kissing and licking the mess off his face. “Don’t cry. You’re such a good boy. You’re the best. You know I love you?”

 

“Yes,” Ben sobbed.

 

Gerrard rolled on his back, cradling the child to his chest, holding him in both arms. “You know I do, though, don’t you? You know I love you like a father.”

 

“Yes,” the boy said.

 

“That’s why your Grandmother said we could go camping this time. She knows I love you. That’s why she lets me take you out, and teach you how to fish and hunt, and do the things men do.”

 

“Yes, thank you.”

 

“Later, we’ll eat those fish you caught. Would you like that?”

 

Ben’s face changed for a moment, proud as he remembered his fish. “Yes, Gerrard,” he said. “I’d really like that.”

 

“And, you know,” he petted Ben’s hair, “if you tell anyone about this, I’ll not be able to see you again?”

 

“Yes, yes, I know that.”

 

“So, if anyone asks why you’re sore, it’s only because you’ve been riding a horse?”

 

“Yes, Gerrard.”

 

“And, you don’t tell anyone anything else. These things, men things, they’re our secret.”

 

“Yes, I know that.”

 

“And, if it hurts a bit, you know that’s because you’re a man, don’t you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Gerrard kissed him. “You’re such a lovely boy,” he said, fondly, stroking the naked little body. “You’ll be such a lovely man one day.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Are you sleepy?”

 

“Yes,” the boy muttered into his chest.

 

“Okay. Tomorrow, we’ll go fishing again. Will you like that?”

 

“Yes.” The child smiled a little bit. “Maybe I’ll catch another one.”

 

Gerrard stroked the boy’s face. He was so… young. Sweet.

  
He felt himself move, down there. It was much sooner than he was used to, after he’d finished. Ben’s fault, really. He was such a very beautiful boy, after all.

 

Maybe one more time, tonight, if he was very careful with him.

 

“Roll over,” Gerrard whispered, “on your belly.”

 

Ben slid off his chest, and rolled over.

~*~

 

Bob was feeling distinctly disappointed. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d expected when he came home this time, but it wasn’t this. Not this quiet repression and distance, again. It was as bad as when Caroline died – not that Bob had noticed at the time. He’d been too busy grieving himself. But still – last time he’d visited, Ben had seemed genuinely glad to see him, had smiled. Had asked where his horse was, and then forgiven him for not bringing her, asked if he could drive the truck instead.

 

“Maybe when you’re big enough to see over the steering wheel, Son.” The boy had pouted, just like a child should when he didn’t get his own way, but he had followed him around like a puppy, and at bedtime he’d sat up on his knee and read his lessons out.

 

“Grandmother’s teaching me Chinese,” he’d said, proudly. “She thinks I’m clever enough.”

 

Bob rolled his eyes at his mother, and spoke to her in Cantonese. “Is ruining one childhood not enough for you?” She tutted, and shook her head.

 

“He’ll thank me one day, Son.”

 

“I understood that!” Ben bounced excitedly and spoke in English. “Well,” he corrected himself. “Only the bit about ‘thank you,’ and ‘son.’” He cleared his throat, and spoke in heavily accented Cantonese. “I understood that.”

 

“You are a clever boy,” Bob said. “Your mother always said you were a clever boy.”

 

Ben stiffened on his knee. Bob cursed in his head. It was the first time he’d mentioned Caroline to his son since she’d died. Maybe it was too soon.

 

No. Ben turned his head and smiled. “Thank you, Dad.”

 

Bob gave him an awkward hug. He’d never been demonstrative, but the child probably missed hugs. Caroline had been affectionate. Experimentally, he kissed his son’s head, for the first time since he was a baby.

 

“Good night, Son. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

“Good night, Dad.” Ben kissed his chin, then wriggled off his lap and ran to his room. “Good night, Grandmother. Goodnight, Grandfather.”

 

Bob’s father lifted a hand, still reading his book, but didn’t say anything. _Maybe that’s where I get it from,_ Bob thought. He shook his head. _I’m going to have to work on being a better father._

 

This time, when Bob visited, he brought his horse _. It’s been nearly a year,_ he thought, shocked at the realisation. _Far too long._ He was looking forward to Ben’s excitement when he saw the horse. But the boy didn’t react at all as he expected. In fact, he barely reacted at all.

 

“This is Jess,” Bob explained, hoping the boy would defrost, just a little bit. He was standing with his hands behind his back, like a soldier on parade. “I thought you’d like her. She’s not flighty, but she’s not very broad in the back, so she’s an easier mount than some. I understand Gerrard’s been teaching you to ride. Maybe you can show me some tricks.”

 

The boy flinched. Bob stared at him, puzzled. “It doesn’t matter if you’re not perfect at it yet. Just show me what you know.”

 

“On the horse?”

 

“Of course on the horse. What did you think I meant?”

 

And actually, Bob was jealous when he saw how well Ben handled Jess. At first he’d thought he’d have to hold the reins, but the boy was confident, clearly knew what he was doing.

 

“Gerrard’s taught him well,” he said, almost sadly, to his mother.

 

“Yes,” she said. “He’s staying at the local detachment. He comes around a lot.” She looked at him. “You know, you could apply to be transferred here. Ben would like it.”

 

Bob stared at his son, who had brought Jess into a well-controlled canter. The boy hadn’t smiled once. “Are you sure? He doesn’t seem pleased to see me.”

 

His mother sighed, and patted his shoulder. “He’s grown up a lot, since you were last here.”

 

“I can see that.”

 

“I’m sorry you missed it, Son.”

 

“Yes,” Bob said, and chided himself for the lump in his throat. “So am I.”

~*~

 

"Before you kill him there's something you should know about this man."

 

I can't, I can't... what am I trying to tell them? What should they know? Something I've always wanted to tell. No… It melts from my memory. _Why am I doing this?_ I wonder. Why am I putting myself between him and McFadden? _Why the fuck haven't I killed him yet?_ He killed my father, I should let McFadden shoot him... I should shoot the bastard myself...

 

"I don't understand it now," I hear myself saying, and oh God, I'm telling stories again: "but when I was a boy I admired him."

 

And I hear my father's voice: "For God's sake, Son, what are you saying?"

_God's sake?_ Really? Now? Dad, seriously, now you're invoking the deity? Do you have any idea how many times I wondered what the hell God was doing when you were away?

 

I'm still talking, and I still sound so much like a storyteller, so much like it doesn't matter. That's all I ever do, tell stories. "And I can still remember," I’m saying, "the first time he came to visit us."

 

I realise, suddenly, that Gerrard is scared. Because the first time he visited, I was so little, and so ... so... so damn stupid. I had no idea what it meant, that very first time. It was just a little touch. He said he was checking I hadn’t hurt myself, riding. I didn’t even guess what it meant until… the time after the next time.

 

And Gerrard sounds scared, I know he remembers it too. It's not just my imagination. "Oh God," he says, "do I have to listen to this?"

 

And then… goddam it. Dad says... "Oh stop it Son, you're embarrassing yourself."

 

How can I say this, in front of my father?

 

So, instead, I tell another truth, a worse truth really. Something that I've wished, for decades, to forget, trying to forget everything.

 

"He stood so tall in his uniform," I tell Ray, I tell my audience. And this is something I never told anyone, not even myself. "You know I never told him this, but secretly –" God forgive me, this horrible thing is true. Because... at least the man held me. Afterward, he would hold me in the dark. "Secretly I wished he were my father.”

 

The truth panics Gerrard. Thank God. The bastard. "If you're gonna shoot me," he says "shoot me." For a moment I think, ‘perhaps it's because he knows what they do to men like him in prison, perhaps he knows what I'm going to say.’ But then... then…

 

I forget again.

 

"I don't know," I say, and I'm suddenly confused, wondering what the hell I thought I remembered, wondering why I ever thought he loved me. "Maybe it was because he was so much taller."

 

Dad still stands there, still not getting it... whatever 'it' is. "He's not taller than me," he says. "People shrink when they die, everyone knows that. In life I was six-two." And I’m making a fool of myself. At least nobody can hear my father make a fool of himself, miss the point again. Whatever that point is. And I don’t care anymore. I don't care how tall he was, or wasn't. In life he was... absent.

 

"I think," I manage, "what I wanted to say is..." oh God, I'm kneeling next to Gerrard, dear God don't let me be kneeling by him... not again.

 

"Get away from me," the man says.

 

And it breaks out of me. It's pathetic, I'm pathetic. I missed something, I should have said something... but I forget. "You broke my heart," I tell him. And it's true, but I don't remember why.

 

And someone is telling him that this is sick, this conversation, that I'm sick. Gerrard sighs, slightly, like he's been let off the hook. And I don't know what I've missed. Nobody in this room can tell me. I can't even tell myself. Whatever I’m not thinking of, it’s my fault. Something unfixable, just me. It slides away, again, unfixed.


End file.
